Author: admin

6/6/92
My father was a lawyer. People in the service would surmise that since I was a lawyer, I had it made. All I had to do was leave the service and return to a thriving practice. How little did they know my father. I don’t believe he ever had, in fifty years of practice, a thing like an annual retainer. He never received a regular paycheck – except in his early years when he was an Assistant City Solicitor. He lived from case to case, estate to estate, occasional political appointment and friends. He enjoyed immensely the idea of Social Security – a regular paycheck! How he managed to feed and clothe 15 to 18 people most of the time is a real tribute to his “practice.”

6/92
I remember fondly the walk with my father from his office on Sansom Street to City Hall. As we walked along Dad would greet others as they passed – seemingly sometimes every few paces. He would say “Hello! Judge,” “Good morning Mac,” “Hello Commissioner!” Each got a short hand gesture, not quite a salute, but almost. Occasionally, we would stop and chat. I would be introduced. They would discuss politics or politicians or some recent social event. I never remember any talk about baseball or weather. Sometimes, Dad would report on the latest exploit of his famous son, Bishop Frank, or his grandchild, Jim’s latest stunt. By the time we reached City Hall we usually received a short report as to who some of the “movers and shakers” in the City government were. Dad would often add a footnote after we had passed so and so with just a “Hello!.” That was John Patrick Walsh – good defense lawyer; or that was Bill so and so a fine lawyer and councilman. He might even add how or where they had met – across the court room or across the ward room, or across the church pew.

These reveries of Dad’s walk to City Hall came back to me recently when I found myself (sans son) doing something similar. As I walked through the “wedding cake/French Architectural Masterpiece.” A I had handed out a few hellos – “Hello Jim, and where’s your 10 gallon hat?”; “Hi! Emmett- putting on a few pounds? No?.” Jim was Justice James McDermott of the Pa. Supreme Court and Emmett was Emmett Fitzpatrick, former District Attorney and now excellent defense attorney. I even gave “Ed,” I mean “Mr. Mayor,” a greeting and handshake. So, the circle has come around and I am now more than ever my father’s son.

It is also a sign of my age or survival or both. I also see signs which carry names of people I knew like “John F. Byrne Golf Course” or “Cecil Moore Avenue.” John was-my Ward Leader in the sixties and helped me get a job with the State’s -3- Attorney General. Cecil Moore was a black defense lawyer whose path cossed mine in my first murder trial in 1958.

There were 8 defendants charged with the beating death of a Korean student, In Oh Ho. It was a cause celebre. The Mayor, then Dilworth, cried at the funeral and Time Magazine carried several stories. I was the junior member of the defense team. We lost, but I persevered alone and appealed it to the Pa. Supreme Court. I hit a home run! The Court gave our defendant a new trial. As a result, Cecil Moore’s defendant, whose motion for a new trial had not yet been heard, gained a new trial. It caused Cecil to recognize the young ex-Marine. He even accidentally picked me up in his auto while driving down Broad Street one day – so we got to pat each other on the back all the way from Olney Avenue to City Hall.

Maybe knowing some of the people whose names adorn the streets or parks or the like is just a matter of survival, but to me it is a bit eerie. It is like being a part of history when you feel that you are too young to be so. It’s like going to one of the Family parties and wondering, “Where did all these old people come from?” Age is like beauty, it is in the eyes of the beholder.

The Dilworth Plaza is the area west of City Hall. It is named for former Mayor Dilworth. It was finished in the early 1970s, and remained undedicated for most of the Rizzo Administration. Rizzo had no love for Mayor Dilworth and refused to proceed with any formal dedication. It, nevertheless, was and still is, Dilworth Plaza.

I made an attempt to serve under the ex-mayor when the first School Board was created. Mayor Tate had appointed ex-Mayor Dilworth as Chairman of the Board. There was a committee of 10 to 15 citizens of various professions chaired by Dr. Nichols, a black Minister, and head of a Ministerial Group. They held interviews with prospective Board Members. On the committee was Brother Daniel Bernian, F.C.S., my former homeroom teacher at West Catholic and track moderator in my years on the track team at West. He was then the President of LaSalle College. Another member known to me was Ted Husted, who held a position in the administration of the Penn Law School when I attended.

The Committee’s task was to select some citizen members to balance with the professional school personnel. I had admired the former mayor, who came bursting in the political scene as I graduated from high school in 1947. He was to become Mayor after a stint as D.A. He led the reform of the Philadelphia government in the form of the Charter of 1951. When I returned to the area in 1958 to begin practice and took up politics he was our Mayor. He resigned in his second term in 1963 to run for Governor. He lost, but it enabled James H. J. Tate to step up from President of City Council to the Mayor’s office. Mayor Tate, in return, named him to organize and run the first Board of Education.

The interviews were held at the Bellevue, the “Grand Old Lady of Broad Street,” later remembered as the home of the Legionnaire’s Disease. The waiting was long on the day of the interview, well into the night. Finally, I was called in to a room to face some 8 to 10 people at a circular table. Dr. Nichols did most of the questioning. It had to do with my background, my education and my personal interests in the education and the educational system. I remember being asked by Dr. Nichols if I favored “integrated” education. Having had a minor in Education at St. Joseph’s and its Jesuitical integrated education of morals combined with empiricism and information, I spoke warmly about my belief in the whole man being educated – as I understood the term an “integrated” education. It was not what Dr. Nichols had in mind. He interrupted me to advise that he was referring to “Integrated” with a capital “I,” meaning race integration. I apologized and, of course, responded that I had no problem with that manner of integration either.

I received a few favorable comments from my former teacher-moderator, Brother Daniel. He advised the committee that he could vouch for my persistence in whatever I pursued – good old perservance. The Law School Assistant Dean, Ted Husted, remarked regarding the same, referring to my overcoming a first year lapse in law school to climb to the “most improved” ballplayer award in my third year. Primarily due to perservance and the old “nose to the wheel” philosphy. They – the committee – were apparently not impressed or my slip on integration let me down. Dr. Nichols became the first member after Mayor Dilworth and I think Ted served on the Board for a while.

Later, I could recall the good fortune I had in not being selected – the turmoil in education which began with integration and the population explosion did not have make the job an easy one. So I never got to serve with one of my heroes, Dilworth, whom Mayor James H. J. Tate later became unhappy with, probably because he was his own man, even as he was his own Mayor.

6/27/92
Just a few short weeks ago, around June 7th I wrote of meeting with Jim McDermott in the City Hall Court Yard. On Sunday, June 21st, Father’s Day, Jim was found dead. He was to meet with his family for Father’s Day dinner and did not answer his phone. A son went to the house and found him. There was an obituary in The Inquirer and it mentioned his penchant for Cowboy hats. The very thing I chided him about when we last met. It was another contemporary who said goodbye to this life. Another reminder of the fraility of glory and wealth – makes us want to “find tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stone and good in everything.” Another jolt to make you bend down to kiss that child and surround yourself with the aura of life.

* * *
We had a children’s week (6/20-6/27). Sean and David were houseguests along with their brother, Paul until Tuesday, Suzanne and Tom were also present with Kate and Meg. We even babysat. The highlight of the event was Pop-Pop being caught red handed eating the chocolate ice cream that Sue had returned to take for their dessert.

Twenty years ago, on April 17, 1972, I ran my first Boston Marathon. It is all a blur now.• I do remember being impressed by the crowds, the number of contestants (about 2000), the people lining the route, and the hordes around the Pru Building. I never did get any Irish Stew. I also remember not being pleased with my time, but the crowds were to blame for that. I had never before had anyone cheer me on by name. The Boston newspapers the day of the run, or the day before, print the entire list of runners with their number. So what a shock to be running along somewhere outside of Hopkinton and hear “Come on McSorley.” It got to me so much that when I reached the halfway mark at Wellesley I realized that I was running a little too much ahead of schedule. The goal of three hours then looked easy, but I had over-estimated my ability and the next half took its toll. We came in at 3 hours and 21 minutes. The after-race festivities are also lost in the swirl of the occasion. I do remember Bill King was along and did very well. I also remember the hill at Natick called “‘Heartbreak Hill” about 22 miles into the race, not only because of the climb, but hearing the portable radios along the route reporting the winner coming to the finish line. I think it was Bill Rodgers, but I wouldn’t bet the house on it.

I only ran Boston one more time, 1973. I had managed to shred my achilles tendon some three weeks before, while running in the Ceasar Rodney Half of Marathon. But I ran anyway with novacaine in the tendon. I remember consulting with a sport doctor (we didn’t call them that then, just Doctors who ran). He advised I couldn’t do any more harm to the tendon so off I went. I finished in the 3:20 range so, in anger, I decided to run the Penn Relays First Marathon, on a Tuesday morning some 10 days later, along the East River Drive. There, I managed to win a Bronze medal for 18th place at 3:12. It is still on my desk encased in glass. To think that after all the years I had run in the Relays, in high school, in college, etc., I had to wait until I was 42 to be in the money.

* * * *
May ‘92 opened with the run down Broad Street. It is an “event,” “happening” or whatever have you! Nearly 5000 men, women and children travel by foot from Central High School on Broad Street near Olney, to the JFK/Roosevelt Park area. The spectacle is outstanding! As you approach the rise near Columbia Avenue (now called Cecil B. Moore Avenue) you can see a stream of heads down the right side of Broad Street covering every inch of the street between there and City Hall. A “snake of people” wriggling down and around City Hall.

1992’s run was held on a cool and cloudy day. Bill ran along with this old man. He came to celebrate Tom’s First Communion on Saturday and couldn’t think of a better thing to do on Sunday morning than to run 10 miles with his Dad! I was suffering from a sciata problem since the run in the Penn Relays. I had hoped that after 4 or 5 miles the pain would disappear. My hopes were never obtained. By the time I reached 4 miles it had increased to such a degree that I seriously considered stopping. I tried to convince Bill he should move on and not be held back by the now limping old man. He insisted he was just along for the “workout” (some workout, no!). We slowed considerably but by 6 miles I was convinced I could finish and did so only 5 minutes slower than 1991. It is doubtful that I would have finished at all if Bill had not been along or if I had had the $1.50 subway fare. You see, the car and our clothes were at JFK, you get a free ride on the Subway up to Olney and we are expected to run back. Bill compared the finish area with,
the Philadelphia Distance run’s and found it wanting . . . it was too large an area and totally disorganized. I hobbled around, got my T-shirt (why else run?), juice, etc. and we headed back to the car accompanied by Ben . . . whom I had called Peter Pan since he looked so young. He is a former ski coach at one of the colleges in New England and now a Physical Therapist. He gave me advice regarding my pain, which I had received before, i.e., I am not stretching enough before and after running . . . so we will start again.

* * * *
May 10, 1992
Writing a paragraph a day keeps the dust away. Somebody already said this I’m sure. Writing makes for analysis, precision and thought. The trouble is, like my father used to say “Thoughts of what, and really, who cares?” I don’t have an answer. I just like the idea of putting thoughts and feelings on paper. I like to have someone read them and agree . . . even disagree. It is not easily explained. I suppose a lifetime of dictating letters, responses to other letters, petitions, briefs, etc. just can’t be tossed aside … it’s an addiction, like running. You feel good doing it and yet never really have to know why. You did it to lose weight, then to compete and now to stay in shape. Writing becomes a necessity . . . first, to make a living and then it created a habit that’s hard to put quietly to rest. Early in the practice I even wrote a weekly column “The Foxchase Lawyer.” It was a rehash of legal ideals, ideas and problems. The deadlines did just that . . . kept you in line so you had to finish one and start the next.

* * * *

May, the month of mothers. Today is Mother’s Day. My memories of mine are dim. I keep remembering when I was a teen coming down the dark corridor from the third floor (at 4116 Baltimore Avenue) and as I walked along the second floor corridor someone leaped out of the dark and scared me! It was Mom! I often wonder why does that incident stick in my craw? Most of my years with Mom were as she was fastly aging … illnesses and headaches were her constant companions. I suppose I was suprised to know she was playful and a “kidder.” I also remember fondly, in 1949 after two years in the prep seminary taking a walk on the beach in Sea Isle with her, explaining why I didn’t want to return to the seminary, and to the priesthood. She agreed and I remember her saying something like “Well, if you don’t think you could be a good priest (translation: celibate) then don’t go on . . . .” How right she was. I would have been a poor priest if I had to practice celibacy.

* * *
May 22, 1992
May is also Birthday month. Mine, Marge’s and our friend Bunny King. On my 63rd I spent the day in Avalon helping June and Mike Golden paint the walls of the condo. We finished two coats on the walls .. all the trim was done by June. I say “we” but June and Mike did most of the work. We celebrated the birthday and the painting with a dinner at the Whitebriar. It seemed appropriate, as an after thought, that I’d be painting on my birthday (the day I became me . . . some 63 years ago). I like to paint. There’s something creative about painting, the unclean becomes clean, the unpainted, painted. It was appropriate it seemed to be doing something on the day you celebrate life, renewal, change, to be making a visible change. It was an unusual way to celebrate, but a good way!

May 24, 1992
Received some greetings for the day . . . one from Win was very touching. She recalled our grandmother telling her when she arrived home, that 16th day of May, l929 . . . “You have a baby brother, Paul!’’ She just lost her Paul after fifty years of marriage. We last saw him the weekend at her granddaughter’s shower. He was slipping badly then. We learned for the first time the long ordeal that Win and her Winnie and Beth suffered in his final days (and nights). The sorrow was, and always is, mixed with some relief that at least the pain is over.

May 23, 1992
Four months ago today I “gave up” (not a good word for it) alcohol . . . in all forms. I’ve done this before and then returned, usually a bit worse than before. Something like the evil spirit that is removed and then returns to the house and is even worse. It seemed like a major decision. To help me live up to the commitment this time I made another decision with the aid of counseling, to join AA. The group is composed only of lawyers . . . all alcoholics and ex-addicts. I has been an enjoyable and encouraging experience. It is something I should have done long ago. lt is interesting that the only time I have the urge for a beer is in my dreams and then I struggle with myself because I know I shouldn’t be doing it. The ‘‘major” part of the decision seems a bit exaggerated, it certainly doesn’t feel like a major one. It is something I feel now that I should have and could have done without the pain being caused to make me see it. Even at 63 you live and learn (sometimes!).

It is Palm Sunday 1992 and I am coming to the eleven mile mark in a race. It is a Penn Relay event run from the stadium at Franklin Field out to the river, along the West River drive and back. As I turn into 33rd street with but a mile to go, the fatigue is beginning to get to me . . . just up this grade and we’ll see the stadium. Up we go and there it is “Franklin Field.” It was all down hill from there to the south entrance of the stadium. The 20 K (12.4. miles) Penn Relay Classic was about to end for me.

Into the South entrance I go and I notice a man standing in front of a microphone going through a list of names, apparently the numbers of the runners. For me it is just a glance and, down the track I go, one more turn, up the straightway to the finish line in front of the North Stands. I thought . . . mmmm . . . it was only yesterday I turned that corner of the track and headed up to the finish line in first place in a mile run for West Catholic H.S. in the City Title meet with Central H.S. I was a winner and so was West. I suppose I am a little slower today but . . . at last there is the finish line and then I heard the stadium loud speakers boom, “Now finishing is Paul McSorley, age 62!”

When I finished in that mile they did announce I was the winner but some how they failed to mention my age. But believe me I felt more like a winner today than that June day in l947 . . . just 45 years ago! I also recall fondly that on that day in ‘47 my Dad was sitting in the stands. The one and only time he saw me run. On another occassion I crossed that finish line with some one in the stands and that was in 1980 when I finished the Penn Relay Marathon there. In the stands was June cheering me on . . . we have a picture with me finishing and you can see June standing in the backgound . . . cheering me on!

This has been a week of memories. Paul Allen’s death brought back memories of my Father as I heard Jim and Frank eulogize their Dad. Both were touching and well done – especially in their ability to intersperse humor with their loving sentiments. This was on April 6. The day before, John’s second anniversary. Then on April ll, Robbie Bugey was married to a young lawyer, Charles Curley, and once again there was talk of fathers and grandfathers, since Robbie is Win and Paul’s granddaughter.

I sat talking with Frank Allen about his granddad lawyer and reminded him of his (granddad) sometime overbearing interest in one grandchild, namely, his brother Jim. He did recall with some humor how Jim even got to travel to Grandpop’s office. I then told him about a comment I heard his grand dad say one day as he wearily departed the office . . . “I’m going home to look into the face of a child!” I can empathise with him now and feel the contentment he felt in just doing that . . . the relief from the quarrels of the law and the people in it.

Death of a love one, friend, and the like are certainly trenchant reminder of our own mortality. Not a very acute or brillant observation, but at 62 it has a meaning that is never trivial. It permeates in a large respect every thing you do or not do . . . at least when you sit down and put your thoughts on paper.

I remember the last time I saw my Dad. It was on the morning he died March 14,1972 (a mere 20 years ago). I had to pick him up at St Cecilia’s after he attended all the masses . . . I had taken him there around 6 AM and returning around 8:30. In the meantime I had gone for a run (what else?). This taking him and bringing him back from Church was not something I did with much relish. I did not do it often. Katherine, who had approved of the idea, did it most of the time. But on this morn, due to weariness or whatever I was volunteered. And so by fate I was his chauffer on the last day of his life.

I remember discussing the forthcoming weekend . . . March 19 particularly, since I was running a marathon in Central Park, N.Y. . . . in preparation for my first Boston on April 17, 1972. He wasn’t too keen about the merits of my endeavor, although he believe in the benefits of exercise. He often walked from our home in West Philly (41st & Baltimore Ave) to his office at Broad and Chestnut Sts.

He often, during this period, referred to how tired he was . . . physically and mentally and was ready to meet his maker. We had many outbursts about his conduct in my house and as only a father and son might do we did a bit of shouting as to who was going to do what to whom. It often disturbed Katherine or at least appeared to do so. She, would never have raised her voice to her father, but with us it was all bluster and flurry with no real menace. We managed to do the same when I was his “employee” at the office. It was said! It was out! It was over! . . . Now let’s get back to living.

That was his last morning. I was not to see him until the following day at the funeral parlor. He had fought the good fight and had not resisted. We always had a problem in communication. It was not the thing to do in his day. He was 42 when I was born and had a good 10 or 11 mouths to feed. It was not suprising that we didn’t pal around together. I learned from others, my mother other lawyers, etc., that he was really proud that I became a lawyer. Even while he was in the office from the years ‘58 to ‘66 he never said . . . Hey! way to go!• Yet I did know that he liked my enthusiasm, as I do now seeing Rich McSorley and Joe Lukens approaching the Bar, but in those years he was nearing 80 and enthusiasm for the law was difficult to muster.